Inspiration
by Ellislash
Summary: The apocalypse through the eyes of a saferoom in Savannah, GA. Kinda artsy, I guess, and the message is up to you. L4D universe owned by Valve.


Chaos erupted in the days that followed the Outbreak. Even the most level-headed of people became manic, wild-eyed animals once the infection began to spread; riots tore through cities, friends turned on each other, and anarchy reigned as the country dissolved into a single desperate flight towards unsure safety.

On the grounds of the Chatham Steel factory, just across from the historic Savannah Parkway, sat a small security building. When CEDA first took it over, it was full of coffee mugs and girly mags and ashtrays. Six hours later the concrete walls were bare, the corners piled high with first aid and half the floor padded by the cheapest mattresses ever to roll off the line. Over the course of a week it saw dozens of refugees, terrified and confused, who passed through on their way to evacuation. Some stayed the night; others left after barely an hour under its protective iron roof.

The first groups still retained some semblance of order, a self-assurance that they'd be met and rescued soon. They didn't take anything. Some even donated supplies of their own, confident that they wouldn't be needing such things for much longer.

Then the situation began to deteriorate. The army was called in. Survivors who'd seen the walking dead, who'd fought them, stockpiled weapons and ammunition for the ones still on their way. Shotguns, rifles scavenged from decimated battalions, the last remaining inventory of myriad sporting shops – people left them, people claimed them, but a respectable armory took up residence in the newly reinforced saferoom.

It stood like a fortress as survivors came and went.

* * *

_R.I.P. Janice Walker, wife, mother and friend._

Black on grey, the simple inscription triggered a heartfelt flood of messages from the front. Tributes to the fallen spread across the wall until the only Sharpie ran out of ink. Then someone brought more, and the writing blossomed like blood on a rain-slick sidewalk.

_We'll miss you, dad._

_ Mark – catch up at the border – Tom+Susan_

_not__ a flu!_

_ CEDA left, ur on ur own_

_ HELL IS HERE_

As the days passed in violence the words became bleaker. Grimmer. Dark tidings became black humor as the saferoom's occupants slowly found new ways to cope with their plight.

Until one day, a few ragged survivors limped in from the rain to rest their weary bodies for a spell.

A girl, exhausted but unable to sleep, spun a blue marker through her dirty, bandaged fingers. A small patch of smooth concrete beside her head bore no graffiti yet. It was empty. Inviting. It waited patiently for the girl to make up her mind, waited for the ink to drag hopelessly across its surface like it had so many times before. It didn't see the cap come off the pen, or feel the gently brushing strokes of its cool tip. But the wall knew, insofar as knowing was possible, that something had changed.

Subtly hidden down by the floor, the message was overlooked by the increasingly rare groups that staggered forlornly across the city. So much had changed in the space of a week that the saferoom's tenants could hardly be distinguished from the disease-ridden monsters they sought to avoid. They were gaunt, filthy, disturbed. They had no will, no direction, and kept going only because there was nothing else in the world they could do.

Through it all, the girl's words lurked quietly, unnoticed, above the mattress.

* * *

But the very last still had a spark. Facing impossible odds, stranded and left for dead, four living, breathing people took refuge in the room for the night. They didn't trust each other yet. None dared show uncertainty for fear of bringing them all down. But when night fell, so did their pretense.

The hazy darkness enveloped them, and their faces lost a certain determined edge. Arrayed along the walls, curled up with their backs to each other, they lay awake and wondered if this really was the end.

Gradually the shadows allowed shades of murky grey to reach their eyes. The youngest blinked – once, twice – until through the gloom he could read the words deliberately traced out in front of his nose. He lifted one calloused hand and followed the letters with a finger, at first not quite comprehending their meaning. They were out of place, a bright speck of light when everything else was spiraling into the abyss; but slowly, gradually, they found their way inside. When they finally took root he blinked once more, this time in understanding; then his tired eyes smiled, and he fell into a restful sleep.

In the morning they took what they needed and moved on. The words on the wall traveled with them, kept their spirits up and their team together through hell and high water. They grew to like each other, and trust each other, and – in certain small, intense ways – love each other. That tiny spark stayed strong in utter defiance of the apocalypse, burning back the cold and hopeless night; and everywhere they paused the youngest would find a bit of space, to leave their inspiration behind for anyone who might someday follow.

* * *

The safehouse stood alone as the world crumbled to ash. It was years – decades – before another truly living soul set foot inside. But when the vanguard of a new generation let sunlight flood the room at last, and the shock of its contents had begun to wear off, a young woman took to reading the raw mosaic laid out on the walls – the horror of history, plastered up for all to see. She felt her heart ache at the truth of it, and wondered how, even so long After, her world could ever recover. Then her eyes fell on a tiny scribble of blue, close to the floor by a desiccated pile of dust.

She smiled, tugged her heavy leather gloves more comfortably on her hands, and let the work of healing begin.


End file.
